


Melancholia Appassionata in a minor (transcribed for violoncello and piano)

by asuralucier



Category: Stoker (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blindfolds, Canon-Typical Behavior, Choking, Classical Music, Established Relationship, Identity Porn, M/M, Sex Toys, Sibling Incest, Trust Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25068058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Richard Stoker loves being a family man.
Relationships: Charlie Stoker/Richard Stoker
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9
Collections: Limited Theatrical Release 2020





	Melancholia Appassionata in a minor (transcribed for violoncello and piano)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thinkatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/gifts).



i. _L’istesso Tempo_

Richard Stoker travels a lot for work. 

This is not a lie. His recent promotion as Head of Sales at a large pharmaceutical conglomerate headquartered in Delaware requires him to oversee large mergers in any number of places that aren’t Middle Bend, a demure, adolescent suburb growing from the northern end of Nashville like some sort of cancerous tumor. But Middle Bend is good for families. Richard Stoker cares for his family. 

“Whereas New York is not so good for families,” Charlie intones, long perfect fingers settled over the keys of his beloved upright piano. Every time Richard visits, it’s always a surprise. Charlie likes surprising his brother; it keeps him on his toes and more importantly, interested. 

But now, the piano is a staple of Charlie’s small but well-presented Midtown apartment. A grand piano wouldn’t have fit up here. Charlie says, a little unpleasant curl playing at the corner of his otherwise well-formed mouth, “Not for lack of trying. I’m never using Manhattan Move Now again. Will you remind me? They scratched this darling coming up the stairs. They’re a bunch of bastards.” 

“That’s a terrible name for a moving company,” Richard agrees, not really listening. 

Charlie gets up from the piano bench, pushing back so suddenly that its legs scrape against the hardwood floor, emitting a loud screech. That’s got Richard’s attention. He looks up from a thick file balanced precariously across his knees. His studious posture is at odds with the old armchair he’s sitting in, since Charlie doesn’t have a desk. There’s no place to put one. 

After a moment, just to make sure, Charlie says, “Don’t be a dick, Dick.” 

Richard rolls his eyes, but he manages to look Charlie square in the face. “I _am_ supposed to be working. I told Evie I would be. I don’t lie to my wife. And don’t call me that.” 

Charlie smirks. “Where does she think you are?” 

Richard says, “I don’t overshare. That’s the good thing about drugs. Everything’s secret.” 

Eventually, Charlie manages to pry the file out of Richard’s hands and sets it (“Careful, that’s for _work._ ") carefully on the floor. Then, less carefully, he mounts Richard, pressing his brother back into the worn cushions of the armchair. Come to think of it, this armchair with its lackadaisical, loud pattern doesn’t really go with the rest of the room. It sticks out like a sore thumb; maybe he ought to get rid of it. Charlie likes things neat and nice; it’s something he’s learned from Richard. He thinks of it every day. 

Richard always thinks it’s fun to resist. It’s not easy for him to shed his secrets and tell the truth once or twice a year. Richard is such a good person. A model family man, a pillar of the fucking community in a little nobody place that doesn’t want to to be Nashville but is. Richard’s hands settle on Charlie’s hips, trying to keep him from pressing in too hard. 

“Watch it, Chuckie,” Richard breathes out, the sentiment upended by his own damned breathing. 

“I hate it when you call me that,” Charlie says, without missing a beat. He shifts just slightly in Richard’s lap and says, right over his mouth, “You know I hate it. It makes me angry when you do.”

Richard grins, like a lopsided mirror. “I know. You should do something about that.” 

Charlie’s dick twitches at the thought. He ought to _do_ something about it, but first he’d indulge, his mouth overtaking Richard’s in a rough kiss, until Richard groans and the armchair groans right along with him under their shared weight. Richard’s hands are roaming freely now, tugging Charlie’s immaculately ironed shirt loose and pressing into his bare, warm back. 

“Say you miss me,” Charlie says, licking traces of Richard’s spit left in his mouth like nicotine stains over his teeth. “Because I miss you.” 

“I miss you.” Richard complies. “I miss you and this shitty apartment.” 

“If you think my apartment is shitty, you should fix that.” Charlie’s erection is already straining against the confines of his nice trousers. That’s the one bad thing about nice pants, but most of the time, Richard isn’t around so maybe Charlie doesn’t have this problem.

“One thing at a time.” 

That’s Richard, always so organized. While Charlie thinks he might be content enough to rut against Richard until he comes; that’s not fun. Charlie is determined that Richard have some fun, some excitement he doesn’t get at home. When Charlie gets up from the armchair, he’s glad to see that there’s a bulge in Richard’s pants, too. Like they’re twins.

Sometimes, Charlie wonders what would have happened if they’d been twins. For now, he presses one finger curiously against Richard’s groin and his brother draws a sharp breath. Richard’s eyes are squeezed shut. 

“Keep your eyes closed,” Charlie orders, and Richard does as he’s told. Charlie goes and fetches the white muslin cloth he keeps by the piano. He folds the muslin over and over until he’s sure Richard can’t see through it. 

Charlie moves to fasten the muslin over Richard’s eyes, and the man stays still. Charlie leans in, touching Richard’s nose with the tip of his own, peering right into him. “Too tight?”

“No, it’s fine.” 

“Can you see?” 

Richard kisses him, slow and warm, his mouth searching for something in the dark. Usually, Charlie isn’t a patient person, but he’s content to let Richard take his time. Finally, Richard shakes his head. “Not really, no.” 

“Perfect.” 

It’s only late afternoon, and New York is full of lights anyway, it’s hard to tell. Charlie goes and draws the curtains. In the simulated darkness, he undresses himself in an orderly fashion, as though Richard is looking and critiquing every little movement. He shrugs off his shirt and pulls his undershirt over his head. Then he steps out of his pants and underwear, shivering a little at the sudden cold. 

Charlie says to Richard, “Hold out your hand.” 

Richard does, Charlie takes his hands and kisses every one of his fingers and then presses Richard’s hand right against the inside of his thigh. 

Richard says, pressing his hand flat against Charlie’s cool skin, again, taking his time, “I feel goosebumps.” 

“I’ll warm up, I always do. Hold on a minute.” 

Charlie has a good memory, but then he’ll forget something or the other, mostly because Richard is so obtrusive in his head and squeezes everything out. He steps away from Richard and the armchair again and makes a short trip to his bathroom. Lubricant, and maybe a little surprise. 

Or not so little. Charlie squeezes lubricant onto his fingers before giving the plastic cock a few quick strokes from base to tip. He holds it out and pushes the flexible cockhead against Richard’s mouth. Richard trusts him, opens his mouth, and then gags from the taste. 

“What the fuck—” 

“Surprised?” Charlie said. “I thought that might speed things up. If you like it, I can recommend one for you. You can bring it home to your wife as a souvenir.” 

Richard starts. His hands aren’t bound and he can easily tear away the muslin covering his eyes, but then he seems to settle in. “Maybe not.” He stretches out a hand, and Charlie is careful to step back just beyond his reach, straightening up again. 

“Charlie, where are you?” 

“Here.” Charlie says, his breath catching a little bit as he reaches to tease his hole with the tip of the toy. “I bought this because I miss you, Dick, I don’t always use it. Just—for special occasions. Rather poetic, I think. I do this when—you’re not here. When you can’t see.” 

Richard expels a soft, “Fuck.” 

That sound is enough for Charlie; he twitches hard and uses that moment to push the toy a little bit inside of himself. “Oh. Fuck.” 

Richard’s hands clench into tight fists against the ugly print of the armchair. “What are you doing?” His voice is low and rough, and all Charlie wants to fucking do is bury himself inside of it. “Tell me, Charlie.” 

“I like it when it hurts me,” Charlie says. “Just a little, not too much. It’ll feel good in a minute.” A long, agonizing minute, but Charlie doesn’t mind. The more it hurts, the better it will feel later. Ying and yang. He pushes an inch more inside and groans again. 

“Can I get up?” Richard asks.

“Yes, but the blindfold stays.”

“The blindfold stays. I just want to touch you,” Richard says. “Please? Tell me I can do that.” He gets up from the armchair, his pants making his jutted erection look so absurd that Charlie almost laughs. Charlie does, but he doesn’t think it sounds like a laugh. 

“Charlie?” 

Charlie clears his throat. “Here. Probably about two steps in front of you. Yes, you can do that.” 

Richard visibly relaxes once he’s found Charlie’s body. He isn’t shy about it either, his fingers running over every inch of naked skin. But he stops right near the curve of Charlie’s ass, almost mindful of the way Charlie is fucking himself. That’s off-limits, for now. 

“Did you just laugh?” Richard mouths against his throat. 

“...Maybe a little. You look absurd with your clothes still on.” 

Richard pulls back to look at Charlie, not that he can see anything. “You didn’t say I could. Why don’t you do it for me?” 

“I’m too busy fucking myself,” Charlie says, not missing a beat. Richard bites him right on his pulse for this no small indiscretion. That spot of pain melts right into the dull ache of his ass clenched around the dildo and Charlie grabs a fistful of Richard’s shirt, nicer than his. It’s a good thing that Richard doesn’t pack light for these business trips.

From there, it’s a frenzy. They’ll fuck several times during Richard’s visit, but Charlie always likes the first time best. Richard hauls him back towards the armchair and Charlie’s hands are a tangle trying to shove Richard’s pants down his ankles. Richard’s cock is hard and flushed and Charlie moans, not even bothering to hold anything back, as he sinks himself down into his brother’s dick. The flesh is hot and alive, much better than the toy he’d been halfheartedly teasing himself with. 

Richard’s mouth hangs open, panting hard, “ _Charlie_ , oh God.” The armchair gives an ominous creak as Richard moves to thrust up into Charlie, and Charlie always forgets how much he likes it when Richard just loses himself and wants and wants. 

“You’re so hard, Richie, I—” Charlie bites down into his lower lip as he grinds himself on Richard’s dick. It’s more lust than love, more pain than outright pleasure, but then Charlie loves Richard all the time. 

Charlie’s hands, listless and directionless, settle around Richard’s throat. He doesn’t bother asking for permission, but he does squeeze slowly, letting Richard warm to his intention and attention. Charlie brushes his thumb over Richard’s Adam’s apple and feels the bump move slightly as he swallows. Then Charlie tightens his grip, squeezing until Richard’s gasping for air, gasping Charlie’s name. _Charlie, please_.

Charlie comes like that, tight around his brother’s dick, astounded at how the white muslin has brought out real color in Richard’s face, as if he’s lived all of his other life in monochrome. 

Finally, Charlie pulls the muslin from Richard’s eyes. Richard blinks hard, as he tries to acclimate to seeing again so suddenly. Charlie’s quick to claim his mouth in a gentle kiss before Richard can say or do anything. Charlie kisses him nice and slow, hands going back to cup the red attractive ring around his neck, but this time he doesn’t squeeze. He wants Richard to catch his breath. It’s likely that Richard doesn’t get exercise like this back home. 

“All right?” Charlie says, tenderly, softly. He brushes a hand through Richard’s sweat-matted hair. More white hairs than last time. Charlie saves that for later. He always does; it seems the kind thing to do. The last thing Charlie wants, is to make his brother self-conscious. 

Richard says, “Fuck.” Then he goes limp, as if his body’s an overstretched elastic that’s finally snapped in two.

* * *

ii. _Grave_

A picture of five-year-old Jonathan Stoker has pride of place in Charlie’s bedroom. In the picture, Jonathan is in colorful swim trunks and clutching a bright yellow shovel. He’s grinning a toothy grin, a shape of the mouth that Charlie knows well, and squinting against the sun. It’s taken Charlie some time to get used to it being there, but it’s been a while and he’s come around. It’s a way of Charlie telling Richard that he’s learned from his mistakes. That he’s more or less learned to share. 

“Robert Schumann and Clara Schumann learned to share,” Charlie says, eager to put himself among good company. “No doubt we’re doing the same.” He’s seated himself at the piano again, flipping through a copy of Robert Schumann’s _Fantasiestücke_ for cello and piano. 

“I hate to think what that makes us,” Richard says, wearing a slightly perturbed expression.. He appears beside Charlie with a mug of coffee, and Charlie moves to make room for him on the bench. Charlie steals a glance at him as his brother sips his coffee. When Richard comes and visits Charlie in New York, Charlie sees it all as one elongated special occasion. He doesn’t keep much in his kitchen, cramped and dim. Cooking in it is a real chore. It hardly seems like a celebration if they just stay in anyway, and Charlie doesn’t want to give Richard any excuse. 

“It makes us Fantasy-stuck,” Charlie tells him. He leans in against Richard’s shoulder, laughing at his own joke. 

Richard, on the other hand, doesn’t look too amused. “That doesn’t mean what you think it means.” 

At Charlie’s insistence, they visit a luthier who operates out of an attic studio in Williamsburg. The luthier is a friend; he chats to Charlie easily and calls him by another name. Charlie likes to think that Richard is at least a little impressed by his resourcefulness. One way or the other, Charlie gets what he wants.

“My husband plays the cello,” Charlie announces, putting his hand almost slyly on Richard’s elbow. “I told him you were the best, Julian. Let’s see what you got.” 

Julian looks to Richard, and Charlie squeezes his brother’s elbow comfortingly. “Don’t worry, darling, I told him you were shy.” 

Richard clears his throat. “I—couldn’t. I haven’t played cello in years.” But in his voice is something else. A studied little tremor of want, something that Charlie is always looking for. He’s hungry for every last little morsel of Richard wanting anything at all. “Not that the surprise isn’t nice, it is. Thank you for this surprise.” 

“It’s ingrained in your muscles,” Julian says, probably because he knows if he does his bit, he’ll be in for a pretty penny. “You know that, don’t you? It’s no more unlike riding a bike, walking home while you’re three sheets to the wind, or—”

“Sex,” Charlie volunteers mildly from his perch in the corner. “It’s like sex. You never forget how to fuck.” 

Charlie’s candor unnerves Richard, that much he can tell. But sometimes a little honesty is good. Richard is suddenly interested in buying a cello, even though he hasn't touched one in years, not ever since he’d met Evelyn. 

Charlie watches his brother run his hands all over his new cello. Between himself and the charismatic Julian, it’s a wonder Richard can resist. 

He watches as Richard unwraps some rosin from a delicate ruby-colored box, the dark surface so smooth and clear he can see his own reflection. Then the spell of this shiny new toy seems to wear off without any warning, as Richard shakes himself. “Do you need money? You could have just said.” 

Charlie huffs. “Buying you a cello is a funny way of telling you I need money. But thanks for asking.” 

Richard is suspicious of him. It’s not exactly a new thing between them. But Charlie still doesn’t like it. He just wants things to go back how they were. Finally, Richard turns back to what he is doing, running the length of the bow along the rosin. The smooth surface grows foggier for it, and then he stops again, satisfied. “I don’t want to know, okay?” 

Charlie lifts a finger to his lips, an age old gesture of secrecy. “You don’t want to know. I’ll remember that.” 

Richard looks uncertain, like he wants to go back on his word and ask Charlie a million questions. But then, he changes his mind. Good. He turns his attention back to the cello, moving to stand it upright, keeping it steady with his left hand wrapped loosely around its neck. “I don’t have anywhere to sit, do I?” 

Charlie opens his mouth to suggest the armchair, but even for him, that’s crude. He wants to bestow upon his brother a gift, not something that leaves a bad taste in his mouth. It’s important to Charlie that Richard sees this as a gift. “I’ll have to buy a stool. But for now, I guess we can share the piano bench. It’s not going to be the most comfortable.” 

Richard says, “I don’t mind.” 

They settle in snug on the bench, nearly shoulder to should without any space between them. Charlie fetches Richard a music stand that creaks when he moves to adjust it. 

“You should see your face,” Charlie says softly and Richard nearly jerks to look at him. “I don’t mean anything bad by it, Richie. But you look happy. I want to make you happy is all. I. I love you.” 

Richard just keeps looking at him. Richard doesn’t say much sometimes, but it’s not as if Charlie isn’t used to it. He claps Richard on the shoulder, friendly and light. 

“Shall we take it from the top?” 

* * *

iii. _Scherzando_

For once, Richard isn’t coming to New York alone. He’s taking his daughter India on a college tour of the Eastern Seaboard. For this reason, Charlie is almost surprised to hear from his brother. 

“What a depressing name for a girl,” Charlie says. He’s heard of India Stoker. He knows she exists, but Richard always seems in a hurry not to speak about her. On the one hand, Charlie understands why; on the other hand, he’s hurt by it. Such is the way of human nature. 

“You say that as if it’ll be any less depressing if she were a boy. Anyway, I didn’t exactly have any say. Evie insisted.” 

“Of course.” It’s just like Richard to spring this on him suddenly. Charlie forces himself to get out of bed and goes to sit by the piano. “I won’t see you then. We’ll reschedule.” 

“I thought we could meet for dinner,” Richard ventures, after a pause. “All three of us.” 

This surprises Charlie, but not exactly in a bad way, either. “I thought she didn’t know I existed.” 

“She doesn’t,” Richard says, “but since you’re so Fantasy-stuck, you can be whoever you’d like.”

“Richard—” 

“I have to go.” Richard cuts him off abruptly. “I’ll call again with some details.” 

“Charlie, this is India.” Richard makes the introductions, his left hand placed guardedly at the small of the young girl’s back. Charlie’s instantly enamored. India’s not pretty in the normal way, everything about her is sharpened and pinched just a tad too tight, but at all angles, her face is a curiosity. Charlie thinks he’ll never tire of looking at her, at least, not for a few hours while the three of them have dinner. 

“India, this is my friend Charlie. Man of the world, he is. I can hardly keep up with him.” 

“I think the word you’re looking for is Renaissance man, Dick,” says Charlie, lilting his accent this way and that, just to get into the part. This doesn’t appear to impress India and she frowns at him before her eyes slide down to her schoolgirl saddle shoes. 

All right, so Charlie will try again. He puts on his best friendly smile and reaches for her hand. He can feel her tense in his grip, but India doesn’t jerk away. Charlie has never met India’s mother, but he has a sterling picture of Evie Barling-now-Stoker in his mind, cobbled together from Richard’s various descriptions about his wife. From such a description, Charlie can say with reasonable confidence that India doesn’t look an iota like her mother.

Charlie says, out loud, after pressing the back of India’s hand to his mouth, “You look just like your mother, India. It's so very nice to meet you.” 

“Thanks,” she says. “You must be the only one who thinks so.” 

Over dinner, Richard and Charlie share a bottle of Riesling, and India is kept happy enough with a steady string of virgin mojitos. At least, Charlie thinks so—if he’s any more honest with himself, it’s hard to tell. She easily takes up the mantle of her father’s silence, wielding quiet just so that she’s protected from the outside, from prying gazes all wanting something from her. 

Still, Charlie doesn't think it hurts to try. He asks, “Do you have a boyfriend?” 

The congenial smile that Richard’s kept up for most of the meal now slips into quiet wariness. India steals a look at her father before turning her attention back to Charlie. She shakes her head. “No.” 

“There must be boys at your school who like you.” 

“Not really.” 

“I don’t think I believe you,” Charlie says, deciding to press his luck. The dinner is going well so far, all things considered. “And if you’re only lying to spare your dad, I wouldn’t.” 

“Why?” 

“Because he’s wild. He won’t mind if you have a little fun, India,” Charlie tips the remainder of the wine into his brother’s glass. “Isn’t that right, Dick?” As an aside, Charlie gives India an exaggerated wink. “And yes, he hates it when I call him that. It’s why I do it.” 

“How’d you meet Dad?” 

The question comes out of nowhere, catching Charlie by surprise. And just like that, he’s being thrown to the she-wolf all by his lonesome. Richard won’t even meet his eye. 

“If I tell you how we met,” Charlie begins, “will you tell me if any boys at school like you? Promise?” 

India shrugs, blatant and listless all at once. “I guess.”

“Somebody mistook us for brothers once, a long time ago. It seemed like such a happy coincidence, I thought to myself that I must be friends with him.” Charlie smiles at Richard. “I succeeded, eventually. In a way, Dick changed my life.” 

Richard says, “Yes.” 

“My story is not as nice as that,” India says. She’s caught onto it, that there’s something amiss. But that’s as far as she’ll get. The rest of it will stay as secret as it always has been. “It’s rather inappropriate.” 

“A promise is a promise.” Richard relaxes ever so slightly, and he reaches to put an arm around his daughter. India tilts her head slightly to register the touch, but otherwise she doesn’t react. “I’ll even promise not to tell your mother.” 

“Well,” India says, “there’s a rumor going around about me at school. That India Stroker must give good handjobs. If that makes the boys like me then yes, I guess there are boys who like me.” 

They walk back to Charlie’s apartment. Charlie tries to offer India his arm like a gentleman who’s been all over the world, but she’s having none of it. She shrugs off the gesture and marches on ahead.

“She walks to the beat of her own drum,” Richard says. “Don’t be too offended.” 

“I’m exactly the opposite,” Charlie promises and Richard’s eyes darken for a second. 

It’s Charlie’s piano that finally wins India over. She’s never taken a lesson in her lifetime, but Evie plays too, and India has learned a lot just from watching her mother. 

“That means you’re a savant,” Charlie tells her. Despite himself, he’s impressed. They sit side by side on the bench and work through measures of _Fantasiestücke_ one measure at a time. She asks him if he plays the cello too after spotting it in the corner, and Charlie decides to be very good and says no. He's keeping it safe for a friend who is away.

“Dad doesn’t like music,” India says. “He doesn’t even like the radio being on when we’re in the car.” 

Richard shrugs at this, more or less comfortable in the armchair watching the charming little tableau in front of him. Richard had settled into the armchair with a startling creak, but then he’d assured Charlie it was fine. 

* * *

iv. _Finale da capo_

While India is spending a night in the dorms at NYU, probably getting drunk or having sex for the first time, or maybe just giving some lucky boy his first handjob, Charlie has Richard all to himself again. 

“You have to promise,” Richard says while he settles in next to Charlie on his bed. The bed is big and nearly takes up the whole of Charlie’s miniscule New York bedroom, but Charlie makes a habit of pinning Richard in against the wall. “You have to promise never to touch her.” 

“Or else what?” Charlie prompts, looking at him in the dark. 

“Or else I’ll get jealous. I wouldn’t know how to contain myself," Richard says. "I’m sure you know the feeling. I don’t love you less, just more in secret.” Just this once, Charlie doesn’t have to look too hard to tell whether Richard is telling the truth. And to tell the truth, relief floods through his chest at once. 

“But can I take India out to dinner? Once in a while? As a friend of her father’s who just wants to look out for her, nothing else.” 

“As long as you promise.” 

Charlie presses his thumb meaningfully across the grooves of Richard’s knuckles. He doesn’t think he’ll let go, not for a long time. “I promise. But I think you’d better distract me anyway, Richie. Make sure I don’t look elsewhere.” 

Richard reaches forward and presses his mouth against the crook of Charlie’s neck. It happens in slow motion, and his hand creeps inside of Charlie’s pants, just over and below his trembling hip bone. It doesn’t take much to get Charlie hard, even though Charlie will never admit to it. He loves Richard after all, so much so that Richard colors his whole world; he loves Richard so much that his heart might burst while Richard makes love to him.

Charlie has no doubt that Richard will take care of him. If there’s anything he knows for certain, it’s that Richard Stoker loves being a family man.

**Author's Note:**

> Some links of interest:  
> -Dermot Mulroney [actually playing the cello](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PrrGSYPDyFo).  
> -Robert Schumann's [_Fantasiestücke_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lacOvMRpwHI) for cello and piano.


End file.
